Nameless
by Clover Four
Summary: Restless


Nameless

In the crepuscular dark to glow of the morning, her tired eyes fought with her mind to stay shut. What woke her was feeling suddenly, acutely alone. Hugging her arms around the comforting warmth of her chest, fighting the restlessness of knowing she needed more sleep. Not wanting to spend another night on the scratchy Dwarf rugs (spun from uncombed rams' fur and brambles), Mat spent the night in the little outpost at the edge of the forest. She never ceased marveling at the secret places her friend could find. It was not hers to tell or share; she would have kept it to herself, however, a second friend, a sweet mage, was included. Gnomes are relentless and powerful when seeking company. What had started as a pragmatic conversation turned into small party last evening; must have been that distractions and entertainment were more needed. But nosey gnomes don't keep secrets very well. In the air clung a hint of the mage's pet skunk and, was that ozone Mat smelled? A frosty, moldy stench from the mage's water minion? The campsite's location was breached. And always the first to leave a party, Mat's sleepy head drooped and rolled. There were many a night, in her tough training days, while drinking with dwarfs, when she crawled in the sleeping sack, with dwarfs sitting on her legs still chugging away, laughing. They never bothered her or played mean-spirited pranks, they loved her too much. But she was teased for somewhat of a lightweight. Draenei blood doesn't hold its alcohol well.

Falling asleep was easy for her. But this morning, stretching under the pelts, the warmth and peace were weak chains against the anxiousness to go, to do. Time nested outside the tent, waiting to be filled, scattered and fed, a big, self-satisfied flightless bird.

Pulling the pelts around her, she surveyed the campfire ring. Some animals or perhaps bandits trashed some of the supplies, but if it were bandits, at least they hadn't bothered her. Maybe forest orphans, ruffians who chose either to disregard the nurturing chapel in Stormwind or were too feral to know of its existence. The tone of the night was clean sweat and duels. Though she lost every match, she hung in there, and had a chance to analyze the fights. She allowed herself to be kited around the grass, and should of have lit her fair, but challenging, opponent on fire and burned him down. His hammer was bigger and stronger, and her channeling of the elements at her will did not meet pace.

Their aggression may have upset the gnome, though. It is unsettling to witness two friends spar, even in a friendly competition. Perhaps that is what prompted the unusual question, the gnome asked, did Mat like stabbing things? Well, no, she didn't. (She still had the scar from the troll rogue that stung when there was a new moon.) Was the gnome worried about Mat's safety? Forest thugs' dull kitchen blades were no match for Mat's axes or wolves, and she had fallen asleep peacefully enough. (And in the light of the morning, was wondering why the gnome was worried about being stabbed? What or who was threatening her?)

Her ancestors had a name for this feeling of restlessness, for naming a thing provides the illusion of control. Roughly translated, it meant something with a shady soul; remorseless and indifferent at most times, yet comforting in larger amounts when given to healing. Time has its limits, too.

What restlessness landed on her? She knew, but saying it meant facing it. She had seen a portal between her world and another; this other world was far more dangerous, and beautiful, than her own. From experience, she knew there must be a gatekeeper to usher her through if she chose: learned the phrase or incantation, the trick, or the key. She imagined this gatekeeper to resemble, not in her image, but familiar when she met him. For now, he lived in the place where dreams congregate when it's light. Unconsciously, her hand reached for the gem-stoned silver key and cord around her neck. She had found it in a drake's nest in the peaks near Dun Niffelem months ago. She was sorry for whoever had lost it, but they were probably digested dragon dinner by now. The silver key was beautiful, and the chain long enough to hide it deep within her chest-guard, safe.

The unease came from another source: the friendship with the paladin had become unbalanced. He had done more for her recently than she had for him. Her gifts seemed limited and trite. And, though it pained her to think it, did he find her tedious now? When fair play, balance and honesty were her most natural attributes, perhaps she was a little too sensitive when the scales swayed. One thing he said that rolled over in her mind was about being equipped for raiding. He was unusually, and a bit refreshingly, blunt. "They will kick you out, Mat." She had never really considered raiding before, always looking at it from the fringes. But her hunter friend had instigated this notion as well: yet she knew if she couldn't match the accuracy, speed, and lethalness of the other fighters she would be stripped of stature, honor, and respect.

It was time to clear her mind, envision what she wanted for herself, not for others.


End file.
